


Where The Sky Meets The Earth

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Consensual Sex, Crying, Crying Dean, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fear, Hell Trauma, Hugs, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Impala, SPNRambleOn, Season/Series 05, Sexual Content, Tenderness, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-17
Updated: 2011-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:12:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t ask how she knows about the angels, about the apocalypse, about the kamikaze mission staring at him in the face. But somehow the fact she knows doesn’t freak him out. Not anymore. In a way, it’s almost a relief. As though he isn’t shouldering the burden alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where The Sky Meets The Earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [capthollywood](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=capthollywood).



> **_A/N:_** One of my two **spn_rambleon** fills. **capthollywood** ’s prompt at **spn_rambleon** went thusly: _Fanfiction: The Impala gets turned into a human lady for some reason (why is up to you, but it should at least make some sense); Dean's interactions with her being the main focus of the fic. Bonus if she's shown as some kind of maternal figure. Inspiration was Doctor Who episode "The Doctor's Wife" with similar premise._ I have never seen the _Doctor Who_ episode, but I have tried to remain true to the prompt. I hope it meets your satisfaction and I apologize that it is a few days late.
> 
> Occurs between _5x17: 99 PROBLEMS_ and _5x18: POINT OF NO RETURN_ with no real spoilers for either episode but there is some general S5 spoilers.
> 
> Special thanks to: **mad_server** for being awesome and doing a rock-hard beta on this baby with no notice… **vie_dangerouse** for hand-holding this baby through its infancy and giving me the extension… **kettle_o_fish** for the chats and encouragement and ideas-bouncing. Also to **purple_carpets** because I think you read this one at some point and I miss you. **capthollywood** , thanks for such a great prompt and letting me run with it. I hope you like it.
> 
>  ** _Disclaimer:_** Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada. Also, I do not own _End of the Road_ by Eddie Vedder – just borrowing the lyrics, so don’t sue.

When he lurches out of the bar and into the dim parking lot, feet stumbling, the first thing he notices his car is gone and sitting Indian-style in the vacant space is a girl —

 _Woman_ , his alcohol-dulled brain corrects him just as she speaks —

“Hello, Dean.” The Stevie Nicks-lookalike rises slowly, elegantly to her feet. He doesn’t miss that she’s barefoot in a dive bar parking lot, surrounded by shattered beer bottles. She doesn’t seem to notice the jagged glass beneath her feet as she studies him, her dark gaze level and filled with something he can’t put his finger on. _Compassion_? _Pity_? And it feels out of place and all wrong, in the same way her black floor-length, slinky velvet evening gown incongruously stands out among their surroundings. It’s sleeveless, held up by delicate rhinestone straps, her small rounded breasts modestly covered, silver curls kissing her exposed collarbones and trailing down to where her nipples would be. “Don’t you know me?”

“Where’s my car?” he half-snarls, words slurring together. A question for a question.

“She’s safe. She’s right here.” She says patiently, unruffled.

Dean blinks in surprise at her use of the feminine pronoun. And then the anger is back, simmering beneath the surface all whiskey-hot. “What did you do to my car? Where is it?” The words run together unintelligibly, even to his own ears.

“It’s all right.” She steps closer to him and he can smell her hair — it is light and flowery with an undertone of something slightly musky, like old leather. “Besides you aren’t fit to be driving.” She stands almost toe-to-toe with him, unflinching in his hard glare. “I don’t think she’d appreciate being wrapped around a tree. Trust me. She’s safe.”

“Christo,” Dean mumbles out.

“I’m sorry, but that won’t work on me. I’m no demon. I’m protected. Same as you.”

“Who the hell are you and what the fuck do you want?”

She takes a step back and he feels oddly relieved, as though he can breathe again. “My name is Chevrolet. But most of the time I go by Baby.”

“Huh. Nobody puts Baby in the corner,” he slurs.

She rolls her eyes, a smirk playing on her lips. “ _Dirty Dancing_ gets old after the first half-dozen times you’ve heard it. And it sounds better when you’re sober.”

They fall into silence.

“I’m Dean,” he says at last.

“I know. I’ve known you for a long time, Dean Van Halen. Or should I say Dean Winchester?”

He startles. “How…”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“ _Chevrolet_?” he asks, incredulous, feeling more than a little unnerved by the way she’s looking at him — as though she knows him inside and out, backwards and forwards, better than even he knows himself. “That must be a bitch to put on the resume.”

She shrugs. “It’s easier than trying to explain Baby.”

“Demons I get, people are crazy.”

He must’ve spoken louder than he’d intended because she giggles. And he suddenly feels old — _thirty-one, seventy-one_ — and tired — _fuck is he tired_ — and DONE. Done with the world. Done with the apocalypse. Done with the angels and demons fucking with him.

Her smile slips off her face and he feels vaguely guilty.

“It wasn’t so bad. I had a pair of awesome brothers who defended my honor.”

There’s a moment’s pause.

“Come with me,” she says abruptly, reaching out and taking his hand into hers, her expression sad. It’s smaller than his but larger than he’d expected, rough and chapped.

“I don’t…” Dean raises his hand, scrubs it down his face, his body sagging. He just wants everything to be over.

“I don’t mind walking.” Her eyes look up, meeting his. “Please,” she adds.

Dean nods and lets her lead him.

They walk across the parking lot, and down the gravel road until they reach a grassy field. The night is cool, tinged with the promise of spring. The grass is green but it is early yet and the flowers haven’t quite bloomed.

She drops gracefully to the ground, drawing up her knees and tucking the hem of her ankle-length gown under her feet. She pats the grass besides her, “It’s not like you’ve got anywhere else to be.”

Dean does as he tells her and he’s grateful she doesn’t try to talk, is willing to sit in silence. After a while, he feels her shiver. He slips off his leather jacket and wraps it around her shoulders. She slips her arms through the sleeves and tucks it close. She raises the cuffs to her face, inhaling it deeply, and whispers something he doesn’t catch.

“What?”

“It still smells like him,” she repeats, smiling contently, almost purring.

“Who?”

“The one who owned me before you…” Her dark eyes are wide and innocent.

“Owned…” Dean stops. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“I told you. I’ve known you for a long time. Ever since you were born. And we met once even before that.”

Again he gets the sense that she can see inside him, as though she knows his deepest, darkest thoughts and feelings.

**::: ::: :::**

“You’re going to say yes, aren’t you?” Her voice hitches and for a moment he thinks she’s going to cry but she swallows and steadies and he’s grateful for it. “You’re going to say yes to Michael.” It’s a statement, not a question.

He doesn’t ask how she knows about the angels, about the apocalypse, about the kamikaze mission staring at him in the face. But somehow the fact she _knows_ doesn’t freak him out. Not anymore. In a way, it’s almost a relief. As though he isn’t shouldering the burden alone.

The alcohol and everything else catches up to him and he twists to the side, choking and gagging, tasting the burn of the bile in the back of his throat. His stomach contracts painfully and vomit is rushing out of his mouth before he can stop it. He vomits and vomits, shuddering with each heave, feeling hot tears and snot stream out of his face.

“Let it out to let it in.” He hears a sweet voice whisper softly in his ear. There’s a hand gripping his shoulder tightly, keeping him from faceplanting into his own puke.

His vision slowly clears and he sees a swath of black pressed up against his side, a small hand pressing against his spasming abdomen. He lets out a shaky breath and sits back, shrugging off her touch.

“Better?”

Dean nods, swallowing convulsively, not trusting himself to speak just yet, smearing his mouth with the back of one wrist. And it’s then he notices her wiping her feet with the vomit-spattered hem of her dress. “Sorry.”

She looks up at him. “It’s all right. I’ve had worse; I’ve already had it all happen before. Don’t worry about it.”

“I can’t do it. I’ve got nothing left.” His voice crackles over a wet breath.

“Shhh. It’ll be all right. You’ll know what to do when the time comes.”

“But…”

She reaches out and he closes his eyes and leans into the touch, tears burning behind his eyelids as she cups his cheek. For a moment, it’s almost like having Mom again. “I’ll be here the whole time. You won’t be alone. I promise.”

He opens his eyes and neither of them disengage.

“I’m scared. This is too big.”

She wraps her arms around his shoulders and holds him tightly to her, snaking up a hand to grip the hair at his nape, guiding his head to the junction of her shoulder and neck. Her long hair gets into his nose and mouth and makes it harder to breathe but he doesn’t move, curling into her embrace.

“I know. I’m scared too.”

He isn’t quite sure what to do with himself, with the kindness and acceptance and affection she’s offering him. It’s something he’s never really felt since he was four.

She rests her chin against his temple as he shudders and a harsh sob escapes his throat. He chokes it back, tries to swallow it down.

“Go ahead.” Her voice is barely a whisper as she rubs his neck, fingers toying with his hair, and it’s then he lets himself go.

He cries for what feels like a long time but in reality is only minutes. He fists his hands in the leather jacket and he’s clutching desperately at her as though he’s a drowning man and she’s a tossed-out life ring.

In a way they are.

Finally, an eternity later, he raises his head from her shoulder and smears a palm down the length of his face, still trying to steady his ragged breathing.

When he can see clearly again, he notices that she’s no longer wearing the leather jacket and it’s folded neatly in half besides her. She reaches up and catches the collar of his dark-colored overshirt and carefully slides it off him, slowly and tenderly. His breath hitches.

“Don’t…”

Her eyes are dark and sad beneath her white-blond bangs. “Let me.” She slides up the short sleeve of his t-shirt, revealing the livid handprint. “Please.” She covers the brand with her hand, the other sliding to the back of his head, tilting it forward until his mouth meets hers.

He’s reluctant at first, almost shy. She presses her lips more firmly against his, sliding the tip of her tongue between his lips. And he tastes cherry lip gloss.

She slides her hand from his shoulder, down the length of his torso, and snags the hem of his t-shirt. She tugs it up halfway before his hands desperately grab the fabric and he pulls it all the way off. His hands wrap around her narrow shoulders, gripping her tightly.

He wonders if she can taste the fear and desperation burning in the back of his throat.

He slides the slinky straps off her shoulders, the sharp edges of the rhinestones snagging on his calluses, and there’s a blind moment when he can’t find the zipper but then she’s out of the evening gown, naked. He pulls back, panting hard, his senses cloudy with lust and drink and pain and forty years in Hell.

Then he’s clinging her to him as she fumbles and works the button of his jeans, sliding off denim and thin cotton boxers in jerky movements as they both tumble into a tangle of limbs onto the damp grass.

He’s on top of her, his breath raspy and sawing in and out of his lungs, supporting his weight in a one-handed push-up so not to crush her. He reaches out, cups her face, thumb following the line of her jaw, brushing against her lower lip. “I can’t…” his voice is hard and needy and he sounds like he’s going to cry again.

“It’s all right,” she whispers.

And it is the permission he needs.

**::: ::: :::**

When he’s fucked out, lying heavily on her, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, mind dull with post-coital. “Shhh. Just sleep,” She tells him softly. He’s half gone, already, and it doesn’t take much to persuade him. He curls his large callused hand around her hip, tucking her sweat-slicked body closer to his and his breathing slips to something slower as she begins to whisper-sing, hand rubbing his bicep, skimming his handprint scar. “I won’t be the last. I won’t be the first. Find a way to where the sky meets the earth.”

**::: ::: :::**

In the morning, Dean wakes up in the front seat of the Impala, shoulder jammed beneath the steering column, legs and neck cramping with the awkward position. And he realizes the leather jacket is tucked around him, as securely as any blanket Mom had swaddled him in _then_. He raises a hand to scrub his eyes and feels a slightly sticky mark on one cheekbone. Lip gloss.

He feels calmer than he’s felt in a while. More clearheaded, at least. He knows what he has to do — he just hopes Sam will understand. Rising, he gently wads up the leather jacket and sets it beside him on the leather bench seat.

The car’s parked in the middle of some field and he thinks he remembers a girl in a black sleeveless gown, her hair all silver in the moonlight but it feels like a dream. He shrugs, inserts the key into the ignition and turns it.

The car roars to life, her chassis purring loudly and happily.

“Ready to save the world, baby?” He asks the car as he pats the dash.

The radio spontaneously switches on and a crooning melody lilts through the speakers:

_I won't be the last_  
_I won't be the first_  
_Find a way to where the sky meets the earth_  
_It's all right and all wrong_  
_For me it begins at the end of the road_  
_We come and go..._

**Author's Note:**

> For a visual of how human!Impala appears in my head (yes, the dress is wrong, but everything else is spot-on):
> 
>  


End file.
